


Statement #0130619: Seven Years

by BialystockAndBloom



Series: Peccate et Sapienter [5]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fan Statement, Gen, OC death, Original Artifact(s), Original Male Character(s) - Freeform, Season 2, Statement Fic, The Desolation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24654631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BialystockAndBloom/pseuds/BialystockAndBloom
Summary: Statement of Dr. Jonas Nyman, regarding a series of misfortunes.
Series: Peccate et Sapienter [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1588075
Kudos: 3





	Statement #0130619: Seven Years

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! Long time no see :p  
> This series isn't dead yet! I'm still working on it and outlining it, and I hope you guys appreciate where it goes.  
> Trigger warnings for hospitilization mentions and knife injuries.

Statement of Dr. Jonas Nyman, regarding an unprecedented streak of bad luck. Statement originally given July 19, 2013. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.

~~~

First of all, I wanted to apologize. When I walked in, the light in the lobby burst. I heard the receptionist – Rosie, her name was, lovely lady – say that she’d changed the bulb not a week before. “What rotten luck,” she said.

What rotten luck.

I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything wrong, I swear. It was just an accident. I don’t deserve this. _I don’t deserve this_.

I should back up, I suppose.

I’ve given eighteen years of my life to King’s College, London. Almost two decades of my finest service, and what did they give me? A pittance of a severance check that got lost in the mail – _rotten luck_ indeed.

Sorry. Again, I should back up.

This has all happened recently, you see, so sometimes it’s hard to keep track of it in my head. I was out antiquing, trying to find something for my husband. Our anniversary was coming up, so this would have been somewhere around February of this year. It hardly feels real when I write that down, mind. It’s only been six months. It feels like it’s been ages.

Kenneth always liked curios. When we’d go antiquing together, I’d usually look at the books or the clothes or the glassware. When we got to the checkout counter, he’d always have found something absurd and outlandish, like a model of the London Eye made of cut-up soda cans, or an intricate statue of a rhinoceros beetle made of stone. He always had an eye for finding the strangest thing in the shop. One time, I remember he spent forty quid on a cast iron butter press. We ran the whole way home, him refusing to tell me why he bought it, and he threw open the door, sprinted into the kitchen, shoved a stick of butter in there and presented it to me. Emblazoned onto the top of it were two lions, which I’m sure were supposed to be intimidating, but looked like they were in the throes of love. We laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

He loved weird stuff like that. I think that’s what drew me to the mirror.

I found it in a little hole in the wall antique shop. I remember I was surprised by just how big it was. It was between these two other shops with just a quaint wooden door and a sign to mark its presence, but… it seemed _bigger_ on the inside, somehow. Or not “bigger”, no – _deeper_. The owner came out of the backroom to greet me, and though I only caught a glimpse of it for a moment, I would’ve sworn it went on for miles.

The owner was a big, burly Samoan guy, built like an ox. His name was Mikaele Something-or-Other. Anyway, that whole shopping experience was odd. Half of the stock was propped up against the walls, or laid plainly on the table. The other half was still in crates; large, unwieldly ones, scattered around the showroom. There only a few items properly on display.

And one of them was the mirror. It was unlike anything I’d seen before or since. It had an ornate gold frame, made to look almost like a wreath. That wasn’t its defining feature, though. It had a red mirror. When I saw it, it was so novel. I’d only ever seen mirrors like – well, like normal mirrors. Like the kind you picture in your head when you see the word “mirror”. But this one was different. It was a gorgeous red, rich and deep and full. It reflected the world back in a ruby hue. It was beautiful.

And, to my surprise, it was cheap. Everything else was exuberantly priced, but the mirror was only twenty-some pounds. I was shocked. The owner of the store boxed it up for me. He said he’d been “trying to sell that thing for a long time”. He helped me get it into my car, and I went on my way.

The box he put it in was… odd. It wasn’t supernatural or spooky or anything, it just had weird dimensions. It looked small enough, but there was no way to comfortably carry it by yourself. And, of course, it was Kenneth’s anniversary gift, so I didn’t want to ask him for help.

I didn’t mean to drop it.

I promise I didn’t.

But, I did. The box hit the ground with a sickening crunch. My whole body tensed at once. I was hoping that maybe just the frame got cracked, but as I picked the box back up, I heard the distinct tingling of shattered glass.

I swore quietly under my breath. I lugged it back to my room, hoping that maybe there were just a few cracks, and I could take it to… oh, hell, I don’t know, maybe a window repairman? Again, no such luck. It was completely destroyed. It was almost comical; the glass looked more like a fine powder than anything that used to be solid.

However, now that it was broken, I realized something I hadn’t before. Underneath the gilt of the frame, it had an oaken backing. It was a dark, dark oak, so black that for a second I thought it was rotten. A cautionary prod proved me otherwise. It was dry, cool, and perfectly solid.

It took me a moment, because it blended into the wood so well, but I noticed that there was writing on the backing. It was in Danish, written in an old, majestic blackletter. Between the extravagance of the font and the low-contrast of the text and the wood, I had a hard time making out most of it.

There were a few things I could make out, though – I actually grew up in Denmark. Apparently, the artisan who made the mirror had signed their work as “Glasmeden i København”, roughly translated, “the glass-smith of Copenhagen”. If the text was anything to go by, then it was made in 1727. The name “Signe Hansen” showed up a few times, though I couldn’t quite make out the context of why she was being mentioned.

There was one thing that I could make out very clearly though. It was written at the bottom of the backing, and whatever it was about it – maybe there was a gradient in the wood, or the ink, or it was just the lighting – it seemed to jump out at me. It was six letters, each painstakingly painted onto the wood with the utmost precision, each letter boring itself into my vision.

“U-F-L-A-K-S”.

“ _Bad luck_ ”.

I would show you the pictures I took on my phone, but the other day, as I was walking home, it fell out of my pocket and into a sewer drain.

_Bad luck._

Alternatively, I’d have brought you the actual frame of the mirror itself, but, when I tried driving it to a safe deposit box for safe keeping, one of my tires blew, and I ended up in a ditch. The car was totaled, and I was uninjured, but can you guess what shattered to smithereens?

 _Bad luck_.

I’m trying to think of what the first incident was. I think the first was when I was at my office the following day. I was at my office in King’s, doing office hours right before my lunch break, and I called up a local curry place for takeaway. They asked if I would pay in cash or card, and I said card. I went to pull it out of my wallet to give them the number, and it slipped out of my fingers. And as it fell, serendipitously, it landed upright in my paper shredder. With a horrible noise, it was rended into nothing.

I actually thought it was kind of funny at the time. I was frustrated of course, but what are the odds, you know? I don’t think that would’ve happened again in another hundred years.

It doesn’t seem so funny now.

I won’t be able to tell you everything that’s happened to me. I hope you understand that. I can try to give you the biggest ones, though.

First, it was the car. I’ve already mentioned that one. It’s a miracle I didn’t get hurt, but the car was totally decommissioned.

Then, it was the tube. Kenneth and I were taking the subway to… God, I don’t know. Maybe to go out to dinner? Maybe to see a film? It was standing room only in there. As soon as the doors closed and it started to move, Ken’s grip slipped, and he fell backwards. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he didn’t land on a pile of bottle probably left by some wino bastard. He needed _sixteen stitches_.

_Uflaks._

Gale force winds knocked a tree branch onto our home. The living room was destroyed, from a structural standpoint, but almost everything else was fine.

Almost.

The one thing, _the one thing_ that couldn’t be salvaged was a family Bible from the 16th century. Explain that to me, how a tree branch knocked it and nothing else off the mantle, and pierced through its ancient leather binding and shredded its pages to dust and scrap.

 _Misfortune_.

The fire was next. Electric, they said. Could have happened to anyone.

I don’t want to talk about it anymore, if that’s alright with you.

Just know that there’s not a day that passes where my heart doesn’t scream and gnash its teeth in agony without Kenneth’s love.

**_Bad._ **

**_Luck._ **

Then, of course, the incident at King’s. You know – the one that got me fired.

It was so unfair. _I_ didn’t do anything. There were twenty-four students and two TA’s in that class, you can ask any of them, _it wasn’t my fault_. It was a freak accident. It was… well. You know.

It all happened so fast, I… I don’t know how it went down beat by beat. What follows is just my best guess.

First, it was that one student, ah… Muhammad, I think his name was. I don’t know. He was a quiet one, but did his work well. He was just the type who kept his head down and did as he was told.

Even if I don’t remember his name, I remember what he said to me.

About ten minutes before it all happened, he got out of his seat, and looked me over. He shook his head and said, “Do you know where the fire extinguishers are?”. I told him yes, of course I did.

“Good.”

Then he left. He seemed like he was in a hurry. He didn’t come back for the rest of the class.

I… I don’t know how, but I know he did it somehow. I _know_ he did, I can feel it. He – why would he have said that, if he didn’t know?

Why?

Then… like I said, it was all a blur. It was _supposed_ to be a very standard chemistry lab. We were talking about cement, and how gypsum was formed. It was a simple, harmless experiment. Honest.

I think it happened like this.

When you mix lime and sulfuric acid, you get two products – gypsum, and water. It was hot in the room that day. I _think_ that the heat of the room made the water evaporate. It wasn’t so hot that it should have gathered as much water as it did, but… I don’t know. I don’t know. The water gathered somewhere, maybe on the ceiling, maybe on a pipe; maybe it even just condensed on the countertops.

Somehow, there was calcium oxide on the table. I don’t know how it got there. I think a TA mislabeled a bottle? Or maybe someone grabbed _quicklime_ when they should have just grabbed _lime_. I bet that’s what it was. What bad luck, right? It doesn’t matter. There was a small pile of it on the table, _that’s_ what matters.

If you don’t know, calcium oxide is a very special chemical, because when mixed with water, it becomes highly exothermic. In other words, it gives off heat – a _lot_ of heat. Over 300 degrees Celsius worth of heat.

What I can’t understand is the bottle of red phosphorus.

There’s three things you need to know about phosphorus.

The first is that there are two main types of phosphorus – red phosphorus and white phosphorus.

The second is that red phosphorus transforms into white phosphorus when gradually heated.

The third is that, when exposed to oxygen, white phosphorus catches on fire _immediately_ , and is nearly impossible to put out.

Ohhh, that poor, poor boy.

 _It wasn’t my fault_. It was the light – it fell from the ceiling. “Freak accident,” they said. It was an act of god – a god of vengeance, of hate, of wanton destruction.

The light fell. The bottle broke. The boy burned.

“Do you know where the fire extinguishers are?”

I know he had something to do with it, I _know_ he did, I just… I can’t remember his name. And now that I’m not part of the university, I can’t look it up. I can’t even try to look up a class roster online. Every time I try to use a computer, the browser freezes, or the motherboard short-circuits, or the monitor gives out, _bad **fucking** luck_ indeed.

I need you to find him. I’m scared. Everything is still going wrong all around me. It’s only been half a year, and I feel like I’m living in Hell. Every day for me is _Hell_. I’m scared and alone, and I need you to help, and

~~~

…

Huh.

Well. Statement ends, I suppose.

Archivist’s note: there is a large inkblot on the remainder of the page. I suppose Dr. Nyman’s pen must have broken.

Bad luck, I suppose.

Well then. Where to begin?

It appears that Dr. Nyman got his mirror from our good friend Mr. Salesa. The descriptions match up well enough – there aren’t that many burly Pacific Islander shopkeepers who sell haunted or otherwise accursed wares. The thing about the shop is new, how it’s “deeper” than it should be. We had Tim look into it, and, somewhat predictably, the shop was gone.

Oh well. I suppose mysterious shops with evil goods have a bad habit of disappearing the very next day, don’t they?

Everything else in the statement turned out to be true enough. It appears that his husband died in an electric fire, sadly enough, and we found similar records of his car crash and the incident at King’s.

Here’s something strange, though. Dr. Nyman mentioned that he had “twenty-four students and two TA’s” in the class where the fire occurred. However, our Sasha was able to crack into King’s records, and in the Chemistry 203 class he was teaching, there were exactly twenty- _three_ students and two TA’s. Normally, I’d write this off as a failing of memory or slip of the tongue, but out of those twenty-three, none of them fit the profile of the mysterious student who apparently warned him about the fire.

In the statement, he refers to the student as “Muhammad”. There _is_ no Muhammad in the school records who attended his class at that date. More than that, there are no students whose name starts with the letter “M”, there are no students with names of Arabic descent, and in fact, there are no students of Arabic or Middle Eastern descent. The rest of the class is whiter than snow.

I find it particularly interesting that Dr. Nyman blames his fate on (who I assume is) a student of color when his misfortune started much earlier than that. Racist prick. But more than that, I find it interesting that this student seemed to know about this event before it happened. I can’t help but think about Statement #0121102, another one story about fire and warnings thereof. However, I don’t think Mr. Keay would have been a student at this point, and if he was, I’m certain that Dr. Nyman would have mentioned his tattoos – nor would he confuse his name with Muhammad, for that matter. I’ll have to make a note to look into this matter more.

For the rest of it… I _suppose_ there’s nothing inherently supernatural about the matter, but we’ve seen too many statements connecting fire to extreme misfortune to ignore by this point.

The final thing of note was that I sent Martin out to check on the current condition of Mr. Nyman. Unfortunately, he appears to be in critical condition. Sometime in 2015, a rather grizzly accident befell him; one so grizzly, in fact, that we… don’t know what it was. Tim used his, ah, _charms_ to get a copy of the report from the local police station, but it’s all waterlogged.

Bad luck for _us_ , I suppose.

Whatever happened to him, he’s been in a near-vegetative state these past two years or so. He can’t move, can’t eat by himself, needs a machine to breathe, et cetera, et cetera. His hospital reports show that every now and again he starts to flatline, but miraculously, the hospital staff manages to save him every time, and once again he has a dozen machines keeping his unmoving body alive.

It’s unclear if he still has his cognitive abilities, but if he does, I’m not sure he appreciates his newfound stroke of good luck.

Recording ends.


End file.
